“Well if I was you, I’d put on some Count Basie and think about heading for Kansas City.” He laughs and starts humming the tune.
“Thanks again, Mal.”
He smiles and nods but doesn’t get out of the chair.
On the way out, Connie catches up with me. “Did he talk you out of a smoke?”
“Ah, well, yes he did.”
“That old rascal.” She smiles and shakes her head. “He pulls that on anybody who comes here that smokes.”
“Sorry, I—”
She waves her hand. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t get enough smoking visitors to matter much. What else has he got? Come back if you can, even if you don’t find what you’re looking for.”
“I will.”
***
I try Al Beckwood again but still no answer and I wonder if he might be out of town. He’s certainly one of those rare ones who has no answering machine. I turn back toward Hollywood, unsure what to do next.
I’ve identified the people in the photo and thanks to Mal Leonard, it’s reasonably certain the baby carriage photo was taken in Kansas City. But I’m no closer to knowing who or where I can find Jean Lane, if she’s still around. Or for that matter, the baby in the carriage.
I think about what Andie said when I told her I was going to pursue this. You might not like what you find. Was it what I’d find, or was it that she knows more than she’s letting on. She’s obviously not eager to help in the search and surely, since the FBI had checked Cal out before, she could look at that file again. It was something we were going to have to talk about, I realize finally. That’s maybe a conversation neither of us wants to have.
At a stop light on Hollywood Boulevard, a tiny piece clicks into place. The dresser drawer full of receipts and papers.
Suddenly I can’t drive fast enough to get back to the house.
A junk drawer. Usually it’s that odd, extra drawer somewhere in the kitchen for those things we don’t throw away but don’t quite know what to do with yet. Old receipts, warranty cards that are never mailed, phone numbers on scraps of paper without names, special offers that have expired long ago. A key or two that we don’t recognize or know what they open, old pencils, pens, a battery or two we never got around to using, a small screwdriver, pizza coupons, Chinese take-out menus. The list is endless. Everybody has one, and this is Cal’s.
I’d taken everything from the drawer and put it in a shoe box earlier. Now I bring the box over to the bed, dump it all out, and start going through it piece by piece, first separating papers—receipts, menus, coupons, scraps—from solid objects. There are the usual pencil stubs, pens that don’t work, two small screwdrivers, a Phillips head and one with a tiny blade for glasses, and the pocket watch I’d looked at earlier. I turn that over in my hand. It’s gold with a white face and large black Roman numerals. No inscription, no marks, just a watch with a cover that clicks into place over the face of the watch.
There’s also a silver cigarette lighter, the kind you don’t see much anymore. Small, slim, compact, maybe a woman’s, the body of the lighter done in black, alligator-like leather. On the bottom, Ronson Princess is stamped on it, and on a small silver plate, engraved in all caps is the name JEAN.
I weigh it in my hand and press down on the lever. Not even a spark. I lay it and the pocket watch aside and start with the paper items.
Most of them are cash register receipts of one kind or other. The printing has faded on most but they seem to be from L.A. businesses, or have no identifying marks at all. The larger pieces are bills, a couple of warranty cards for a coffee maker and a toaster, and several hotel bills. I sort through these and find three for the Hotel Carlisle, Kansas City, Missouri. The dates are 1959-1961. There are also passenger copies of two round trip train tickets from Kansas City to New York.
I stop for a minute and light a cigarette. Cal could and probably did live in both places at one time. Both cities figured prominently in the jazz scene, and many musicians gravitated to New York from Kansas City, Detroit, Chicago. Count Basie, Lester Young, Charlie Parker all had roots in Kansas City. Cal would have been in the thick of things in those days. On a whim, I dial the number on the Hotel Carlisle bill, but of course I get nothing but one of those weird tones and a voice saying, “Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please try again.”
I set the lighter, the pocket watch, and the hotel bills aside and dump everything else in the trash under the kitchen sink. The pocket watch I stuff in my bag, and for some reason, the lighter in my pocket, wondering if it can be fixed. The hotel bills I slip into the file folder I’ve been carrying around with the intention of making copies of them sometime.
I hear footsteps then and Dana comes in. “Hi. What’s up?” she says.
“Just going through things from that drawer.” I show her the lighter and bring her up to date on my visit to the union and the musicians’ home and my visit with Mal Leonard.
“You’ve been busy,” she says, dropping into Cal’s chair.
“Yeah, but not accomplishing much.”
Dana smiles. “Well, you know more than you did a couple of days ago.”
“I guess. It’s just, it seems like it’s going to be a long haul. Too much time has passed.”
She picks up the hotel bills and looks at them. “God, is this the one in the photo?”
“So Mal Leonard says. He even told me a story about how the H in the sign was shot out by a jealous boyfriend.”
She nods and lays the bill down again. “Do you think Cal was staying there?”
I shrug. “Probably. It’s certainly possible. I still haven’t connected with Al Beckwood. I’ll keep trying with that and, well, after that, I don’t know.”
She nods again and smiles. “It’ll come. You just have to let it happen.”
“Let’s hope so. You have any plans tonight?”
“Well I should do some work on my thesis, but I can easily be talked out of that. What do you have in mind?”
I look away for a moment. What
do
I have in mind? The more I’m around Dana, the more I like her. “I’m sorry, with all this happening, I’ve never even asked what your thesis is about.”
“Oh that,” she says, laughing. “A close textual analysis of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s
The Great Gatsby.
Colon—there always has to be a colon in academic titles. ‘Daisy: Victim or Instrument of Gatsby’s Death.’”
“Wow.”
She laughs again. “Well I always loved the book, but finding something nobody has written about already is hard, so it’s a stretch.”
“It’ll come. You just have to let it happen.”
“Okay, you got me. Now what are you going to tempt me with?”
I think for a moment. “Want to hear some jazz? There’s a place in the valley with pretty good food and usually a pretty good trio.”
“Yes!” she says. She stands up. “Do I need to change?” She stands up and holds out her arms. She’s wearing very form fitting jeans, a light sweater, and sandals.
“Not a thing.”
***
Conte’s is on Ventura Boulevard in Encino. Nothing upscale but good food, at least the last time I was there, and they’ve maintained a jazz policy, despite the closing of many other clubs. They do it by using studio players who aren’t concerned so much with money as they are with having a place to play, or new guys, just looking to make some gigs, stretch out, get away from the rigors and constrictions of recording or casual money gigs.
The first set is underway when we arrive. We get a booth fairly close to the band. I don’t know the piano player or the drummer but I’m pleasantly surprised to see the bassist is Buster Browne. I catch his eye and wave as Dana and I sit down. He smiles broadly and nods then hunches over his bass and pulls off a couple of choruses on “Invitation.”
“You know him?” Dana says.
“Yeah we go way back.” We order two glasses of wine, salad, and the special of the day, a seafood pasta in cream sauce. We’re just finishing our salads when the set ends and Buster comes over. I introduce him to Dana and he slides in next to her in the booth.
“So, Buster, how you doing?”
“Oh you know, gig here, gig there. Same old thing. I had a good run with Bonnie Rait for awhile. I heard you were in Europe.”
“Yeah, I worked Ronnie Scott’s in London for a week, then hooked up with a tenor player named Fletcher Paige. We landed a gig in Amsterdam that lasted three months. I’m living in the Bay Area now. Just down here for some business.”
Buster frowns. “Fletcher Paige. Tenor player, right? Wow, I thought he was dead, man. He must have been over there a long time.” Buster smiles at me. “You get into any trouble over there, any detective work?” He turns to Dana. “This cat can be scary.”
I let it go, not wanting to get into the long story about tracking down Chet Baker and my friend Ace Buffington. I glance quickly at Dana. “No, everything was fine, Buster.”
Buster looks at his watch. “We gotta go back. You feel like playing a couple? It’s been awhile.”
I glance at Dana. “Sure, if the piano player doesn’t mind. Who is he?”
“Naw, he’s cool. Joey Beal. He’s been around awhile. You know this town and piano players. Never enough good ones, then too many.” Buster gets up. “I’m going to get some air. Give me a nod when you want to come up, okay?”
“I’m excited,” Dana says. “I get to hear you play.” She’s already downed her first glass of wine. “How long have you known Buster? Is that really his name? I won’t ask about the shoes.”
“Only one I know him by. We worked together a number of times. Last one was the concert in Las Vegas he mentioned.”
“And you don’t want to talk about that one.” She holds up her glass and I pour her some more wine. “So how does this work, you playing with them. Are there some kind of rules?”
“Well, usually if one or other of the musicians knows you, and they like you, you’ll be invited to play and it’s fine. Buster will let the piano player know I’m here, and unless he’s got some particular reason, he won’t mind. It’s just kind of an unwritten protocol. My part means I won’t play more than two or three tunes.”
“Camaraderie among musicians. You have your own little society don’t you?”
“Yeah I guess we do.”
We get through dinner and listen as the trio comes back. Joey Beal has a nice touch and I guess the three of them have been playing together for awhile. The trio has a kind of straight ahead feel as they play standards and blues. Nothing to really upset the dinner crowd but enough jazz to satisfy people who come for the music. When Buster looks over and raises his eyebrows, I nod and get up. “Back in awhile,” I say to Dana.
Buster introduces me to Joey. “Hey, the detective piano player,” he says but not in an unfriendly way. “The piano is pretty good. Enjoy, man.”
I sit down at the piano and turn to Buster and the drummer, a young black man with a pencil thin mustache. “How about ‘Sweet and Lovely’?”
Buster nods, the drummer nods, and we take it at a medium two tempo, Buster just floating behind me as the drummer stays with brushes for a couple of choruses. I lean in more as Buster starts walking in four and the drummer switches to sticks and we swing hard for two more choruses. Buster solos for two choruses and then we exchange fours with the drummer and take it out.
“Yeah,” Busters says. “You’re playing better than ever, man.”
“Thanks.” I flex my right hand. Not even a twinge of pain. “A ballad? Then I’ll get out of here.”
“Sure. What have you got,” Buster says.
“‘My Foolish Heart’?”
I play through one chorus out of tempo alone, then Buster and the drummer ease in as we take up the slow ballad tempo. Buster nods his head as I near the end of two choruses. He plays half then I come back in and we close it out.
“Thanks,” I say. I stand up as Joey comes back to the piano.
“Very cool, man. Come by again if you stay in town. Good to see you,” Buster smiles.
“You too, Buster.” I shake hands with the drummer and Joey and return to the booth.
“That was amazing,” Dana says. I see she’s already ordered some coffee.
“Glad you liked it.” We listen to a couple more tunes, then I get the check. I wave again to Buster as we leave.
In the car going back to the house, Dana is quiet. The radio is tuned to KLON and Bill Evans is gliding through the changes of “I Love You.” I glance over from to time, see her just staring out the window. “Something on your mind?”
“What?” She turns toward me. “Oh, sorry, just zoned out for a minute.”
“Thinking about your thesis?”
She laughs. “Hardly. That’s about the last thing on my mind.”
“What then?” We pass the 405 Interchange and head east toward Hollywood.
She sighs and leans back. “I was just thinking, these last couple of nights, seeing you play tonight. I’m going to miss you being around.” She sits up straighter and turns up the volume on the radio. “Who is that? It sounds kind of like you.”
“Thanks. That’s Bill Evans.” I stare straight ahead, light a cigarette and crack the window. “Are you going to be okay in the house?”
“You mean am I going to be spooked?”
“Well, yeah.”
She smiles. “No, I’ll be fine and I’ll have Milton.” She looks over at me till I feel her gaze. “Andie is a lucky woman.”
Neither of us says anymore till we get to the house.
***
I wake up early in spite of sitting up for over an hour, just thinking, letting my mind run over things. Dana is gone when I get up. I make coffee and sit at the kitchen table with a pad and pen, trying to write Cal’s obituary for the Musicians International. I look at what I’ve written so far.
Calvin Hughes—pianist, composer, teacher, died in his Hollywood home of natural causes. Born in Kansas City, MO, Hughes’ career spanned six decades, as a pianist with a number of territory bands before moving to New York. In 1949, he became a member of a rehearsal band that eventually led to the recording of Miles Davis’ Birth of the Cool.
Hughes later moved to southern California where he was a staple at Los Angeles jazz clubs while teaching youth groups in Watts. In the early 80s, Hughes retired from active playing and lived quietly in Hollywood. Hughes is survived by
I stop there. Who? Jean Lane? An unknown child? How to fill in those blanks? I stare at the pad for several minutes before I continue.
No funeral services were held. Messages, condolences can be sent care of Evan Horne.
I add my address and phone in Monte Rio and as an afterthought, Cal’s home address and phone. Not much but it’s all I can think of.
I get a second cup of coffee and sit down to think about it some more when the doorbell rings. I go to the door and find a man in a three piece suit and tie. He’s about thirty and carries an expensive looking tan briefcase. “Yes, can I help you?” I don’t open the screen door.
He flashes me a big smile. “Evan Horne?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, I’m Brent Sergent with Erwin, McCullough, and Bowers Developers. Do you have a few minutes?” He holds up a business card. I glance at it through the screen door and look back at him.
“What’s this about?” I open the screen door and let him in.
“Thanks.” He steps inside and gives the living room a quick once over. “Smaller than I imagined,” he says. He looks back at me. “I understand you just inherited this place from a Mr. Calvin Hughes.”
“Yeah, that’s right. What about it?” I already don’t like Sergent. He’s just too slick, too presumptive. I know he’s selling something. “How did you know?”
“Public record, Mr. Horne,” he says almost too quickly. “My company is prepared to make you an offer, a very considerable offer I might add. I’m sure you are aware of property values in this area. Frankly, this place isn’t worth the cost of razing it. But the land is extremely valuable.”
“It’s not for sale,” I say.
He gazes at me. “Can we sit down for a minute?”
I shrug. “Sure, but you’re wasting your time.”
Sergent sits down on the small sofa and snaps open his briefcase. He takes out a document and hands it to me. “Just take a glance at this, Mr. Horne. Please.”